Aftermath
by rayvern
Summary: The fire burned away everything, and nothing was the same. Before Japan, Ryoma was involved with gambling syndicates on street tennis and mob bosses with not so pure intentions. Disillusioned!Ryoma
1. Chapter 1

Summary: The fire burned away everything, and nothing was the same.

Notes: AU, written about 2 years ago when the idea wouldn't leave me alone. One-shot (unless I get more inspiration).

Warning: character deaths. Angst/ drama.

-oO-

He watched as the fire lapped at the building, almost swallowing it whole. The red lights wouldn't stop flashing and the sirens kept on screeching long after the firefighters stopped going into the building because it was too dangerous and about to collapse anytime. Some of the officers were shaking their heads and gesturing, once or twice at him. He stared back solemnly but not really seeing anything. His eyes were curiously dry, but his grip on the racket had tightened to the point of almost pain, turning his knuckles white. It was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

Nobody knew how the fire started. He didn't care. All he knew was that they weren't coming back anymore. The first two weeks after the fire was spent in social service, paperwork, and numerous faces that didn't matter. He wouldn't cry, wouldn't speak, wouldn't let go of his racket and the adults poked and prodded at him until they gave up. The other children talked to him, whispered about him, made fun of him, then poked and prodded at him until a few narrowly missed tennis balls to their faces sent them scuttling. They left him alone after that.

The adults let him go back to school soon after. It was still the same school although there was another one nearer the orphanage, because 'he needs stability and familiarity as much as possible'. But things weren't all that familiar – the teachers stopped picking on him for not paying attention, conversations were awkward around him, and people spoke carefully as if afraid to upset him. He ignored them.

Now he's always the first one out of the school gate after the last bell rang. He'd walk aimlessly, letting his feet take him where they will, but still managed to get back before dinner. He didn't realise he was looking for something beyond getting away, until days later when his feet stopped in front of a tennis court. The sound of rackets hitting balls was almost soothing. They used to play every- He took a deep breath and steadied himself against the fence, left hand curling around the holes.

'Hey kid! Pass the ball will ya?'

He looked up, startled at the yell. There was a ball near his feet. He picked up the ball with his racket, bounced it a few times and hit it back to the teenager. The ball hit the ground but didn't bounce; instead it spun on the spot for a few seconds and stopped there.

The teenager stared at him, eyes narrowed. 'Are you looking for trouble?'

He looked at him, then turned and walked away. A ball flew past his ear. It would have hit him if he hadn't moved to the side.

'Don't walk away when I'm talking to you!'

He ignored him. Someone grabbed his arm and made him turn around. It was that older boy. So annoying. The boy grabbed the collar of his shirt and hissed, 'Don't ignore me.'

He looked at him. Three heads taller than him, spiky hair with red tips, eyebrow piercing, tattoo on the forearm. The boy shook him roughly. 'You looking for trouble, kid?'

He slapped his hand away and glared at him. He had almost bit his own tongue from the jerks. The boy snarled and drew back his arm, preparing to strike. He stared at him steadily, refusing to back down.

'Hey, take it easy. Maybe he's mute or deaf,' the other boy said, walking to his friend's side.

His glare intensified.

'I don't like the look in his eyes,' the spiky hair boy said.

The other boy studied him. 'Yar, this one's got guts.'

'Ought to teach him a lesson.'

'Come on, Jack, no point bullying disabled kids. Let's get back to our game.'

Jack lightly slapped his cheek twice and sneered, 'You got lucky, disabled kid.'

His hands clenched. Disabled? He'd show them who's disabled!

He marched towards their court. The other boy had just served and they were rallying. He took a ball from his bag and hit it at the ball just going into Jack's court. The two balls collided and bounced off course as Jack was about to return his friend's shot.

'What the-' Jack startled and looked around. His face reddened in anger when he saw him.

He marched onto the side of the court opposite Jack's, pointed his racket at him and got into the receiving service position.

'You want a match? I'll crush you, you little brat!' Jack growled.

The other boy sighed and got off the court. He sat on the bench and took a drink, grumbling, 'Hey make it short k. I still want to play.'

The match was short, fast and brutal. He put all his anger and grief into every shot, each was swift and relentless. He wasn't seeing Jack; he was seeing his father, the match they'd never play again, the match he'd never have the chance to win. The teasing perverted comments, his mother's rebukes, the constant squabbling at mealtimes... all of it. He hit the last winning shot and stood there. His cheeks were wet, he realised dimly. The racket slipped from his grip and fell to the floor with a clatter. He collapsed as his legs gave out under him and sat there, tears forlornly trailing down his face.

'6-0,' the boy breathed, 'I don't believe it. You didn't even score a single point.'

'Shut up,' Jack groused halfheartedly, 'The kid's a monster.' There was no heat in his words, only a hint of admiration.

His friend glanced at the boy and his brows furrowed. 'What's wrong with him? He won and he's crying?'

Jack looked at the kid. 'Don't know. Maybe he has some past trauma about tennis?

'Hey, kid.'

He blinked, his vision blurred by the tears.

'Good game.' The spiky hair boy offered his hand.

He didn't move, just stared at the hand blankly. Jack took his hand and shook it.

'It's almost dinner time. Joel and I are going to get some burgers. Want to come?'

'I'll treat. Come on,' he said gently when the kid kept staring blankly.

They helped him up and herded him out of the court, keeping up cheerful meaningless chatter along the way because it's better than uncomfortable silence stretched over worried furtive glances at the boy.


	2. Chapter 2

Setting/ background: America. His parents died before they moved to Japan.

**Warnings for this story: future implied underage sex, violence, slash **(I'll also put warnings on the chapter itself)**  
**

Pairings: Ryoma/ OC, future Ryoma/Fuji or Ryoma/Yuki

-oO-

They treated him burgers and walked him back. The silence grew awkward when he stopped in front of the orphanage and he glared at them, daring them to say something about the place or him. There was no pity, only acceptance. And they ruffled his hair and waved goodbye with an invitation, 'We're usually at the courts on 1,3,5 around late afternoon to evening. Look for us if you want to play again.'

He cried himself to sleep that night, muffling sobs in his pillow, tiny hands clenching sides of the soft cotton. His parents were really gone.

- 1 year later -

'Hey Ryoma! Are you free tonight?' Joel jogged up to him, panting a little, looking harried and a little anxious.

Ryoma blinked. 'I guess. Why?'

'Great, can you stand in for Jack for a tennis match? He had a tiny accident this afternoon and won't be able to play.'

'Why can't you stand in for him?'

'Well, the match is really important and you have a better chance of winning. Please?'

'Whatever.' He shrugged.

Joel sighed in relief. At least now the boss won't kill Jack or him.

-oO-

Ryoma looked at the screaming crowd around them in the warehouse-like 'stadium', headlights shining on the tennis court in the middle of the stands like some grand finals match.

'Why are there so many people?'

'Erm, they are tennis enthusiasts,' Joel mumbled, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

'Seems like an important match. Are you sure I can just play for Jack?'

'Don't worry about it. If you can't win, he won't be able to do it either.'

'Seems unfair for his opponent,' Ryoma said idly, looking at the larger teen across the court who was warming up and stretching, with a serious look on his face.

'Just play your best. But uh, it's really important that you win.'

Ryoma stared at him pensively. Joel fidgeted and looked away.

'Ok,' he said finally, bending down to tie his shoelace and readjusted his cap. 'You owe me lots of Ponta after this.'

Joel laughed, a mix of relief and nervousness. 'Sure.'

The crowd jeered as he walked across the court and met his opponent at the net to spin for the right to serve first. He lost the toss. His opponent seemed overly confident, looking down at him from his greater height with a mumbled 'easy win'.

Ryoma smirked and turned back, walking to the receiver's position and standing in the ready position, racket held in front of him in his right hand.

A toss, the sound of impact and the ball sailed over the net. Mediocre serve, he thought as he returned the ball. To and fro it went, his opponent trying to place the ball away from him and him always managing to return it.

Wait for a mistake or end it fast?

5 minutes, 10, 15… the crowd was getting rowdy and impatient, shouting for either to score. Well, it was getting pretty boring.

Ryoma hit a fast return, aiming for the corner. It flashed past his opponent and bounced just before the boundary before he could even move. He smirked at the stunned expression on his opponent's face. That guy should not have been so arrogant earlier.

'15-love!'

What followed was in stark contrast to the first rally. The match ended in 10 minutes.

'Wow you totally trashed him!' said Joel, handing him a towel and a can of Ponta.

Ryoma smirked. 'He said it'd be an easy win, so I gave him an easy loss. Just stand there and watch the ball flash past.'

Joel laughed loudly, clapping his shoulder. 'Nice one.'

A man dressed in a business suit stopped behind Joel and studied him. Ryoma looked back unabashedly, taking in his blond hair, blue eyes, sharp nose, high cheekbones, and strong physique that hinted of regular exercise. The cut of his suit was impeccable, and out of place in this rowdy warehouse-like place. He's relatively young, probably mid-twenties to early-thirties.

'Hey Ryoma, what are you staring at?' Joel asked and turned around. He tensed minutely and said, with a smile that might pass for a grimace, 'Hi Boss.'

Ryoma raised an eyebrow. The side of the man's lips quirked upwards. One couldn't call it a smile.

'Hello Joel. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?' the man asked pleasantly, still staring at Ryoma.

Joel's glances darted between them, looking like he wanted to find another way out, or maybe calculating how bad it would be if Ryoma was his usual bratty self to his boss. He exhaled and said, 'This is Ryoma. Ryoma, meet my boss, Tom.'

Tom extended his hand. 'Nice to meet you.'

Ryoma took his hand and murmured, 'Likewise.'

He released his grip but Tom held on to his hand. 'You're a very good tennis player. How old are you?'

'13,' he replied shortly.

'13 is a good age. So much potential.' The pad of his thumb rubbed the back of Ryoma's hand lightly.

Ryoma stared at him indifferently and said, 'Can I have my hand back?'

Joel's eyes widened and he looked torn between apologising profusely and dragging Ryoma away from his boss immediately. He should have known it would be very bad to bring Ryoma here, no matter how much he needed him to win the match.

Tom laughed and released his hand. 'Of course.

'Joel, can you give us a moment alone?'

Joel looked at Ryoma uncertainly, and flinched as Tom's glare sharpened.

'I'll be over there. Yell if you need anything,' he said, trying but failing to sound like he's joking.

Tom turned to Ryoma and smiled warmly but it didn't reach his eyes. 'I have a business proposition for you.'

'I'm not interested to be your boy toy.'

Tom looked startled for a moment before laughing softly. 'Interesting assertion.'

Ryoma folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head. 'Was I wrong?'

Tom paused, studying him keenly. 'No, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. What do you think about playing more matches for me?'

'Not interested. I'm only helping a friend today.'

'You'll get a 10% cut of the profits, which can be a few thousand dollars per match. You'll have room and board at the mansion with the other boys if you want to move out of the orphanage. You'll have access to training facilities and coaches, and be reimbursed for tennis-related expenses. You'll also meet more challenging opponents.'

'What's the catch?'

'You'll have to play matches and achieve my desired result.'

Ryoma thought for a while. 'I don't trust you.'

Tom laughed. 'Of course not. Trust your friends then. Plus you'd make their lives much easier if you agree.'

Ryoma narrowed his eyes. 'Is that a threat?'

Tom spread his hands in a universal non-threatening gesture and shrugged. 'Think about it. Let me know your answer in a week.' He smiled, like the way businessmen smiled when they wanted you to think that whatever they're proposing is good for you but actually even better for them, and walked away briskly. A tall, well-built, tanned man in a suit, whom Ryoma didn't notice was there before, followed silently. The bulge at the side of his waist was noticeable.

Ryoma stared after them stonily and muttered, 'Che.'

-oO-

* * *

I have some idea of where I'm going with this but I'm not sure if anyone would be interested to read it. Let me know what you think. To continue or not? Because I've read stories where it's better to leave it as one-shot and don't want to make the same mistake. Thanks.

If you think I should continue, feel free to suggest ideas too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter warnings: implied violence, implied underage**

* * *

'Joel.'

'Mm?'

'Do you like working for Tom?'

'Boss? It's ok.'

'You don't like it?'

'There's no like or don't like. It's good money. And he's better than the others. If you don't double-cross him.'

Ryoma was silent for a while. 'He wants me to play tennis for him,' he said finally. 'If I do and want to stop, can I just leave without consequences?'

Joel looked unsurprised though a bit relieved. 'It depends on the negotiated terms.'

Ryoma hmm-ed and took a sip of his ponta. 'I assume he doesn't mix business and pleasure?'

Joel choked, coughed and stared at him. Ryoma looked like his usual bratty, uncaring self. He guessed he shouldn't be surprised that the boy knew his boss's preferences. Orphaned and unsheltered, he's not as innocent as most boys his age. 'No, he usually doesn't,' Joel replied.

Ryoma hmm-ed and finished his ponta, throwing the can into a bin they passed. 'Well, let's go visit your boss.'

Joel sighed but did not dissuade him because his life just got easier. He called his boss and they were on their way. They reached all too soon. At the door of Tom's office, the guard stopped Joel and gestured to Ryoma, 'Him only.'

Joel glanced at Ryoma a bit worriedly, but was unable to disobey. 'Don't anger him and you'll be fine.'

Ryoma shrugged and went inside. The door closed.

Joel shook off his morbid thoughts of sending a lamb to slaughter and went to sit at the waiting area. He flipped through magazines, played games on his handphone, looked up at the closed door, checked Facebook, looked at the clock, played more games, tapped his fingers on the armrest, thinking whether his negotiation took so long last time, and flipped through more magazines.

Finally the door opened and Ryoma walked out. With a cut on his forehead, a bleeding lip, and bruises on his neck and arms. Joel stood in alarm and hurried forward. 'What happened?'

'Nothing. It's settled. Let's go.'

Joel looked at the guard but he made no move to stop them so Joel quickly herded Ryoma out.

-oO-

Tom swirled the amber liquid in his shot glass and stared out of the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the nightlights of the city landscape.

He wasn't born into mafia life. No, he had had to fight hard for everything he'd achieved and owned today. Fighting for your life on the street can be a great motivation. When you're at the lowest, there's no place to go but up. And if you want to live, there's no room for morals on what you have to do to survive. Everyone was afraid of him.

That was before he had money and power. Now he could afford to let some things slide, especially when it amuses him. But people remained afraid of him because they never knew when they would be caught in his capricious temper. Fear was good in appropriate doses but boring in abundance. Where's the challenge?

That boy, Ryoma, was something else. He'd stared unflinchingly into his eyes and not backed down even when Tom had closed his hands around his throat. Then he had the guts to add medical compensation to his list of demands. Tom laughed, recalling the look in his golden eyes.

The boy sure had spirit and guts in spades.

And he's different from his usual boys. Precocious, amusing, unyielding. Tom wondered what it'd take for him to break/crack, wondered if he'd still have that indifferent look in his eyes when he's making him come.

Tom made a point to never mix business and pleasure. But he wanted the boy. And he would have him.

-end chapter-

Let me know which is preferred:

1) more snippets of life in America and Tom; or

2) skip a few years to when Ryoma arrives in Japan.

Feel free to contribute ideas too.


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